


Lyrium Dreams

by oratorio



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Angst, Character Death, Fenders, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-03
Updated: 2013-09-18
Packaged: 2017-12-25 13:06:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,730
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/953457
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oratorio/pseuds/oratorio
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Anders blew up the Chantry, Hawke let him live against the man's own wishes, and they find themselves on the run. Fenris begrudgingly helps to look after the emotionally damaged mage. He is resentful and bitter at first, but sometimes it's surprising where love can be found. If only love could live forever...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

His memories remained strong even as his body weakened.  The skies over Kirkwall as red as the blood which soaked into the stone of the streets, the screams of the mages as they succumbed to Templar blades.  The fury he felt at the man sitting hunched over on the upturned crate in the courtyard, the cause of all the death, the destruction.  Magic needed to be harnessed, but this was madness.

He remembered the disbelief when the Champion had let the man live, had ordered him to atone for what he had done.  How can a mage atone for the corruption of magic?  Especially one who is demon-possessed, an abomination.  May as well ask a mabari to atone for leaving hair on the furniture.  Just as inevitable, just as unavoidable.

Thus they had all been tainted with the man’s murderous actions.  They were his companions, and so they were guilty.  Fenris had been truly free for a matter of months when he was exiled, a wanted man, all because of the magic he had always opposed, always hated.  And so his bitterness grew.

He did not know the Free Marches.  He’d been afraid of being caught.  The only option he had was the ship the pirate had appropriated, the only way for them out of the hell _he_ had created for them.  Of course, Hawke insisted the abomination came too.

The man wanted to die.  That much had been obvious.  He didn’t eat, didn’t sleep, did nothing except sit in the hull of the ship raving about the triumph over oppression, how all would know his name.  He didn’t even know his own name any more.  His name became Vengeance.

Months passed. The ship had docked in Ferelden, a land still struggling to piece itself back together after a Blight.  Nobody took notice of a small band of travellers, all too busy remaking their own lives.  They’d taken shelter in a large abandoned hut in the sacked village of Lothering, Hawke’s former home.  But they had all known that this life,  hiding in plain sight, could not last.

 _He_ still lived, skin and bone and exhaustion. The demon did not speak any more; perhaps the self-neglect had finally driven him out.  They took turns in caring for the man. Washing him, dressing him. Trying to make him eat. On the days it was Fenris' turn, he often contemplated a sword through the neck. The poor creature was a mess. It would be an act of mercy.

Then one day the man had thanked him as he handed over a bowl of stew.  Gazed up at him with those empty amber eyes and spoken, his voice scratchy and raw with disuse. 

He had remembered his own shock at the words, his disgust when the abomination had tried to grab his wrist, a pleading look in his eyes.  _“I’m sorry.”_   Only the second sentence the man had spoken in weeks, and a waste of breath.    He wasn’t interested in false apologies.  His life had taken this turn because of the man before him, running when he should be free for the first time.  “Sorry” was bitter in his mouth, just like the ashes of the burning city they had left behind.

“What use is _sorry_ to me?” 

He had pulled his arm away sharply, resentment and revulsion playing across the hard lines of his face.

The man was pathetic.  It had been hard to hate him as he was, emaciated and broken.  But the horror of his actions would never subside, the repercussions trailing them from town to town, hanging over them like a virulent aura of darkness.

He remembered the anger he had carried with him like a shroud.

 

* * *

 

Eight people in the same hut had been normal in those days, the days after the Blight.  People took shelter where they could.  But eventually suspicions would rouse about the strangers squatting in the centre of the village.

It was Isabela who left first, sneaking away in the dead of night as was her wont.  They had woken one morning and she was simply gone, the only sign that she had ever been there a ship in a bottle left beside Hawke’s pallet.  Inevitable.  The life of a landlubber was never going to be hers.

Aveline and Donnic were the next to go.  No secret departures for them, honourable couple as they were.  Rumours had been abound that the infantry in Redcliffe were recruiting, their numbers decimated at the end of the Blight.  It would be hard for the former Guard Captain to start over as a foot soldier, he knew, but she was resilient and it would be a better life than the boredom of Lothering.  Hawke had hugged Aveline hard and shed a tear.  Even Fenris was sorry to see the warrior woman go.  She had been a valued ally, supportive and principled.  He doubted he would have remained safe in Kirkwall for all those years without her assistance.

The surprise had been Varric.  Hawke’s best friend, or so she had thought.  Fenris never had found out where the dwarf had gone or why he had left.  Hawke was always too upset whenever his name was mentioned.

And then there were four.  Three mages… and him.  He had barely believed the situation he had found himself in.  Why he had not left, he could not recall.  He assumed it was something to do with the allegiance he had felt towards Hawke for helping him extinguish the life in his former master.  The true reason may be lost in time, but he couldn’t regret staying, not now.

It hadn’t always been that way.  He knew he had been a difficult person to live with, sour and short-tempered from the moment he opened his eyes in the morning to the dead of night, turning restlessly on his lice-ridden straw mattress.  Grumbling at the lack of food, the filth of the village, the cold of the Ferelden winter.  Everything was broken and nothing would ever be right again.  He remembered that feeling vividly.  He had been wrong.

 

* * *

 

“Fenris.  Can you hear me?”

The man crouched beside the elf, dabbing a moistened cloth at his cracked and dry lips before turning back to the doorway.

“I’m not sure this is such a good idea,” he said to the two women standing there, anxiety written plain on their faces.  “You can see how he is.”

Fenris smiled and drifted.


	2. Chapter 2

He remembered that cold winter morning when he had been woken by watery sunlight breaking through the grime of the windows, the bluish light of the snow on the ground outside reflecting in the rays of the dawn.  The pallet next to him where the mage normally lay was bare.  Unusual for him to be gone.  Unusual for him to even rise from his bed without coercion.

He recalled wrapping himself in the old furs that Hawke had slept upon, a welcome discovery in the bottom of the old closet when they had moved in.  He remembered finding the man lying on the frozen ground outside, blue with cold and showing scant signs of life.

He thought about the fire they had stoked that day, desperately trying to warm him;  Hawke conjured fireballs in her hands and held them as close to the man as she dared.  Finally he had choked out a breath, his skin losing the mottled look of death and beginning to pink.

He remembered wondering why he had gone to search, why he had tried so hard to save him.

 

* * *

 

He could still picture the village in his mind, the scrubby forests on the outskirts where they used to hunt for meat and scavenge for berries.  Nobody was sure where the bear had come from – one day it had just been there, defending its newly-found territory with sharp discoloured teeth flashing and claws rending the air.

They’d been taken by surprise, not expecting to fight.  Fenris had been at the head of the party as usual, had been slow to draw his sword.  The enormous brown animal had seized him round the waist, dragging him off his feet, the cracking of ribs and his own screams ringing in his ears.  He tasted blood in his mouth, his vision blurring.

Hawke had hit the bear with a crushing prison spell and Fenris had dropped to the ground, bleeding and damaged.  He’d glanced up to see Hawke straining to hold the bear while Merrill threw spells at it.  Neither woman was a healer.  He had crawled slowly towards their packs, discarded hastily in the heat of the fight.  There was a potion there somewhere.  He needed to reach it before he lost more blood, before more energy left his body.  His limbs were heavy, his eyes closing.  He felt so cold.

Before he had made it half way to the bags, he felt the unmistakeable prickle of magic over his skin, soaking into his body.  He felt a sharp pain as his ribs began to knit together, the sliding oddness of the puncture marks in his skin closing over.  He remembered the confusion that had rippled through him and the astonishment when he had finally been able to raise his head to see the abomination standing not six feet away, his eyes focused and his hands glowing green.

Nobody could remember the last time they had seen him casting spells, yet he had healed Fenris as if everything was _normal._

 

* * *

 

It wasn’t long after that day that the mage had begun to talk in sentences longer than two or three words.  Words other than _sorry_ or _thank you_ or _not hungry._   Of them all, it was Fenris the man had chosen to speak to.  He had never asked why.

At first he had just listened as the mage babbled on about his childhood in the Circle.  He was not interested in anything the abomination had to say.  He let the man’s words wash over him as he sat with an old dagger in his hand and sculpted wood into different shapes – a sword, a nug, a cat.

The mage had lit up at the sight of the little carved cat.  “Just like Ser Pounce-A-Lot,” he had exclaimed.  Fenris had offered him the piece of wood and watched silently as tears had come to the man’s eyes.

He’d not been able to resist asking.  _Ser Pounce-a-Lot?_ As soon as the mage had been able to speak again, he told him the story of the cat he had been given by the Hero of Ferelden.  It seemed such an unlikely thing to happen, but the man was so earnest that he almost accepted it as truth.

It became easier after that to tune in to the man’s words, his tales.  At the same time it became harder to listen to them.  Fenris had never thought about the Circles in other lands before.  All he had known was Tevinter and the power of the Magisters.  He was shocked at the mage’s recollections of his past, had struggled to believe him until the man had exposed the scars on his body.  Talked of the scars that couldn’t be shown.  The scars they both shared.

The abomination had done a terrible thing.  But had he the chance to wreak vengeance on the whole of Tevinter, could he really have said that he would not have done the same?

The mage’s stories had made him reflect on his own life.  The past was the past; nothing even the most powerful magister could do would turn back time, would bring back a single lost moment or save a single lost life.  No more than Fenris could leech the lyrium from his own body.  Perhaps it was in that moment of clarity that he finally began to live.

 

* * *

 

Fenris heard the voices in a corner of his mind: the low murmur of his lover; a familiar feminine Ferelden burr; the lilting accent of another voice from his past.  He felt himself swimming to the surface of his consciousness, becoming aware of the burning pain in his body, the way his vision slid out of focus with each ripple of agony.  His gaze held just long enough to recognise the woman kneeling by his side, the _vallaslin_ unmistakeable despite the changes in her over the twenty years since he had seen her last.  Twenty years.  Had it really been so long?

 

* * *

 

He could see her in his mind’s eye as she was in her youth, fresh faced and determined.  They had never been friends, the blood magic she had insisted on wielding created an insurmountable barrier to any companionship they may have found.  But despite what he had seen as her stupidity and naïveté, she had a good heart and had done much to help the abomination heal.  Not to mention that she had been the warmth to Hawke’s cold, the softness countering the Champion’s rough edges. She had been the only constant in Hawke’s life since she had lost her family, one by one.  Fenris had almost envied them their closeness, the love that had developed between them.

He hadn’t even understood what love was, back then.  It had crept up on him, blossoming and flourishing in the shadows of his soul before he had known what was happening.  Unwanted, unasked-for, undeniable; it had grown as the mage strengthened, mirroring his path back to health.

When had he first realised?  Long before he had accepted it, that one thing was certain.  Many weeks of his heart stuttering when the other man smiled, of his palms growing clammy when their arms accidentally brushed, of sleeping beside the window so the sun would rouse him at dawn just so he could watch the mage awaken.  Of being afraid to question his own behaviour, not wanting to confront the answer.

But something _had_ changed between them over time, something that had its roots in the shared experiences of their past, the familiar stories of oppression and fear.  Something that tugged in his chest when he saw the mage making bread for the first time, flour smeared across his face and frowning in concentration.  The simple joy of baking - a task many would consider routine but something that would have been beyond the man just weeks before.  The cloud of his lethargy was finally passing, as if he had looked into the abyss and decided to live.

He remembered the women watching him watch the mage, smiling knowingly.  Everyone had known before he had admitted it to himself.  Including Anders.  He recalled the first time since their exile that he had used that name, stopped thinking _abomination_ and began thinking of him once more as who he was, as _Anders_.

It had been the day the mage had kissed him.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do not speak Latin so please excuse any butchery that has unwittingly happened. All errors are mine.

This memory was particularly clear to him.  He remembered a warm Nubulis afternoon; the fields around the village turning green, the ground softening and becoming fertile once more.  He had been digging in the small patch of garden behind their hut, turning the soil over in the hope that they could plant potatoes and onions.  The mage had brought him a mug of water and a cloth to wipe the sweat from his brow.  Their fingers touched, and Fenris had automatically tensed.

The mage had instantly looked downcast, on the verge of tears.   “I’m not going to hurt you,” he had said, his voice almost a whisper.

Fenris had spoken without thinking.  “No,” he had said, insistent.  “It’s not that.  I…”

Too late, he realised that he had no way of explaining why he had reacted the way he had.  He didn’t think he even understood it himself, only that it had nothing to do with fear, or even hate.

His voice had trailed into silence and he had looked up into the other man’s eyes.  The mage must have seen in his face the explanation that he couldn’t verbalise, because he had leaned down and brushed his lips softly against Fenris’ mouth.  Both men had frozen, wide eyed and shocked, before the mage spun on his heel and began to hurry back towards the hut.

“Anders.  Wait,”  Fenris had called out.  The sound of his name on the elf’s lips had stopped the mage in his tracks, although he had not turned back.

It had seemed as if Fenris was floating outside his own body as he walked up behind the other man and lay his head softly against his shoulder, one arm snaking around his waist.  He’d felt warm, soft, _alive_.  They had remained like this, not saying a word, until Hawke had come into the garden to see where Anders had got to.  She had winked at them and retreated, the two men untangling and looking at each other awkwardly.

They hadn’t spoken about it for days.

It was the blood mage, of all people, who had challenged him.  _Why is it so bad to care, Fenris?_

He had looked at her, and couldn’t answer. _It’s so easy for you,_ he wanted to shout, but he knew it wasn’t – not really, not when she and Hawke had lost so many of those they loved, the guilt and pain weighing hard on them both.  They’d found succour in the touch of their hands, the love in their eyes; had found a way to keep going through it all.  Perhaps the comfort he had felt when he held the mage in his arms had shown him that he could start to find his way, too.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Her voice cut through his delirium, high-pitched and furious.  She was so rarely angry.  He drowsily wondered who had upset her.

“Why didn’t you send for us sooner?” 

Her sing-song accent didn’t suit being angry, he thought.

He saw the blurred shape of his lover looming behind her.  “It wouldn’t have made any difference,” he said, “I’ve tried everything.  There’s nothing else to be done.”

He sounded so sad.  Fenris frowned and closed his eyes.

 

 

* * *

 

 

It had been the hardest thing he had ever done.  He’d fought demons and evil men, battled magic and swords and the kind of creatures even the subconscious mind would find difficult to conjure.  He had been tortured; been used, touched, _dirtied._   He had lived in the forests, through biting winter nights, surviving on scraps and small animals that he had managed to trap and kill.  But, he thought, he’d  never been so at a loss as at this moment, shifting uncomfortably on his feet as the mage looked into his eyes questioningly.

Fenris pushed his fingers roughly through his hair.  He closed his eyes and began to speak in his native tongue, too afraid to say the words to the man just yet.

 _“Omne initium difficile est_ **.** _In omnibus requiem quaesivi, et nusquam inveni. 1”_ 

He shook his head, sighed and continued.

_“Nunc scio quid sit amor 2.  _ _Haeserunt tenues in corde sagittae, et possessa ferus pectora versat amor 3”_

He dared to open his eyes and look at the mage, trying to summon the courage to speak _to_ him, to tell him.  To his shock, Anders was smiling.  “Is that how you feel, about me?” he said, tilting his head to one side.

Fenris’ breath caught.  “You… understood that?”

Anders chuckled, looking embarrassed.  “They taught us well in the Circle.  Many of our books… were in the Tevene language.”

Fenris blushed furiously.  He hadn’t even considered that his words would be heard.  His mouth opened and closed like a dying fish.

Anders reached out a hand, caught his fingers in his own.  “I remember all you did for me, even though I know you hated me,” he waved his other hand as Fenris began to protest.  “I do not blame you.  I hated me, too.  But you… you were always there.  I began to look forward to being near you.”

The mage’s fingers circled against his palm, hot breath against his cheek as he moved closer.

“I began to need you,” he said, quietly.  “I began… I began to love you.”

Fenris inhaled hard, trying to stop his heart from hammering in his chest so loudly that he imagined all could hear it.

“I never thought you would ever stop despising me, let alone…” Anders said.  His voice trailed off, his eyes almost sad.  “But why?  Why would you care about me so, knowing what I am, what I have done?”

Fenris huffed out a breath.  “I do not feel I had a choice in the matter.  It just _is_.”

“I cannot say I am not glad,” Anders said, before lowering his face to the elf’s and capturing his mouth in a searing kiss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1 – Every beginning is difficult. Everywhere I have looked for peace and nowhere found it.  
> 2 – Now I know what love is. (from Virgil, Eclogues VIII)  
> 3 - Slender arrows are lodged in my heart, and love vexes the chest that it has seized. (Ovid, Amores I,2).


	4. Chapter 4

It had not been the life he had expected.  It was better than he had hoped for, yet also different.  He had not thought freedom to be so ordinary, exile to be so surprisingly peaceful.

Anders was different now.  He never mentioned what he had done in the grip of Vengeance, and there was no sign of the spirit’s return.  He worked the land, fingers growing calloused, dressed in rough cloth tunics rather than the elaborate feathered robes of his past.  His magic became something for the shadows, quiet and secretive and only used when necessary.  Once, he had risked everything.  Now, he would not sacrifice this tenuous happiness so easily.

It had been just the two of them ever since Merrill and Hawke had left to seek out Hawke’s cousin in the Grey Wardens. They grew crops together, raised chickens, kept cows for milk and meat.  It was a simple life, but he was content.  Happiness was found in the arms of his lover, waking up curled beside him in the morning sunlight.  Feeling the warmth of his skin, hearing his steady heartbeat thrumming in his chest.

He had never known love before, but he knew this was what love meant.  Knowing that he would lay down his life for this person by choice, without hesitation.  Feeling the warmth in his heart every time he pictured Anders’ smile, the softness in his eyes.  Knowing that a life without him was impossible, even the most fleeting thought of it bringing a kind of pain that he had never felt before.

He often thought about everything that had brought them to this life together, and he found he had no regrets.  He loved with his whole heart, and was loved in return.  This was all, and he needed nothing more than this.

 

* * *

 

 

He wasn’t sure where he was.  Was this the Fade?  Everything was hazy, shadows creeping in at the edges of his vision.  Perhaps he was sleeping, but why was he in pain?  He moaned softly and felt a cool hand on his forehead.

“It’s the lyrium,” Anders was saying.  “It seems to have become unstable, it’s poisoning him.  I don’t know what to do.”

His voice was low, and thick with tears.  Fenris wanted to hold him, but he couldn’t find him.  Was he here in the Fade somewhere?  He tried to call his name, could only cough.

“Can we drain the lyrium, somehow?  Or could we heal him, in the Fade?”  That was Merrill.  He wasn’t sure what she was talking about, but she sounded upset too.  This was a strange dream, troubling.  He struggled to wake.

“He is too weak.  To touch the lyrium now would likely kill him.  I… I am not ready to lose him.  I can’t.”

 _But I have lost you.  Where are you?_ he wanted to say, but the words would not come.

The pain was everywhere.  It burned through his body like flames.

Everything was black.

 

* * *

 

 

Satinalia dawned, hoary fingers of frost against their windows and weak winter light casting grey puddles across their floors.  It was warm beneath the blankets, skin touching skin.  Opening his eyes, he gazed at the man sleeping beside him, strands of grey in his hair now, his face even in repose worn and tired.  He hovered his fingers over his lover’s forehead, feeling the familiar rush of love, all that remained which had not been weakened by the passage of time.

He rolled out of the bed, stretching his muscles, feeling the pain begin to spark in the lines of his old markings.  It had been getting worse lately.  All too well, he understood what that meant.  It had been a good life, he thought.  It broke his heart to think of leaving it – leaving _him_ \- but he knew the choice was not his to make.

Dressing hurriedly and silently, he crept out of the house, returning shortly after with a small basket, tied with a ribbon.

He woke Anders with a touch of icy fingertips, chilled to the bone from the morning walk.  It amused him to see the mage leap out of the bed, shrieking.

“I have a gift for you, my love,” he said, smiling.

“It had better be a good one!  Maker, you nearly killed me.”  Anders pursed his lips and pouted theatrically.

The basket wobbled as Fenris set it down on the bed.  Anders raised his eyebrows at the scrabbling noises coming from within.

“So much for surprises,” Fenris snorted, as a small tabby kitten batted back the lid of the basket and sprang out, wide green eyes taking in its new surroundings.

Anders gazed at the kitten, then at Fenris, eyes brimming with tears.

“His name is Custos,” the elf said brusquely, trying to swallow down the lump in his throat at seeing his lover’s reaction.

“Guardian.  He’s a little tiny for that, no?”  Anders smiled, one hand lazily stroking the tabby, who rolled over obligingly and batted at his fingers.

“It doesn’t take a soldier to watch over a heart,” Fenris said, blinking hard as he pressed a kiss to Anders’ lips.

 

* * *

 

 

And so he remembered, here in the darkness of his mind.  Not the Fade, then.  Something else.  Something everlasting.

But not like this.  Not without saying goodbye.

He groaned as he fought to open his eyes, to drink in one more moment of life, precious and wonderful as it was.

A shift of colour and the familiar smell of him, the old tang of herbs and the freshness of his soap, the musk of sweat underneath.

“Anders,” his voice cracked, brittle and harsh in his mouth.  He heard the man breathe in sharply, felt him shift and press fingertips against his own, lightly brushing his unmarked skin.

“I am here, my love.  Don’t try and speak.”

“Have to…” he rasped.  The pain was beginning to sink into his body, the fire dousing, his limbs turning colder.

“Fenris.”  Anders said brokenly, breath hitching as sobs racked his body.

The elf’s olive green eyes shuttered, opened, finding a final moment of lucidity as he gazed upon his lover and smiled sadly.

“Remember, my love.  _Quam bene vivas referre, non quam diu._   In aeternum te amabo.  You made me happy.  Never forget how much I loved you.”

“Don’t leave me,”  Anders was  crying hard.  “I love you.  I need you.”

“I’m glad…” Fenris said, his voice almost inaudible, “she let you live.”

Anders lay his head against his love’s chest, tears soaking into the sheet that covered him, feeling his breath stutter and rattle in his throat, listening to his heart slowing, stopping.  The terrible grief of silence.  _One more beat.  One more beat.  Just one more beat.  Please._

It was a long time before he let go.

 

* * *

 

 

“I miss you,” he says conversationally, sitting beside the small cairn that marked his lover’s resting place.  “Every day I miss you.  I don’t know how I’ve got this far without you, truth be told.”

He looks up at the sky, a fresh, clear Firstfall day, cold and dry.  It reminds him of their last Satinalia morning, three years ago.  It is beautiful.

He lays the flowers on the cairn, opens the bottle of wine and pours it through the cracks in the stone.  “I’ll be seeing you soon,” he says, rising to his feet slowly.

The two women stand at a distance, watching his ritual.  The smaller, dark haired woman holds a tabby cat, wriggling in her arms.

“Take care of him, won’t you?”  Anders tells her.  “He’s taken good care of me these last years.”

She nods, sadly, presses a kiss to his cheek.

He turns and begins his long walk to Orzammar, a long-forgotten spring in his step.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quam bene vivas referre, non quam diu - it is how well you live that matters, not how long. (Seneca)  
> In aeternum te amabo - I will love you for eternity.


End file.
